


With All The Dying Leaves I Scream

by Lassroyale



Category: Zombieland (2009)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 20:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassroyale/pseuds/Lassroyale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Columbus gets hurt and left behind, Tallahassee has to decide: salvation on the open road, or redemption in eyes of a broken boy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	With All The Dying Leaves I Scream

**Author's Note:**

> Zombieland fic I started writing when the movie first came out. I've been going over all my WIP's and realized that this one has a lot of potential. This and the following chapters that I had have been edited for flow and random mistakes. I'm going to re-watch the movie and finish it up, so keep posted. Please R&R if you feel like it! :)

Tallahassee leaned restlessly against a broken fence post which skirted a narrow, uneven country road that led towards a little town called Ransom. The town was a podunk little shit-hole and Tallahassee got the distinct feeling that it had probably boasted more cows than cars, at one point in time. A feeling of undefined churlishness crept through him as he slowly rubbed his hands together, warming them, and scanned a deserted pasture to his left. His breath was visible in the crisp air; it was late fall and the leaves were as dead as most of the country's population. The ground was hard beneath his boots, and part of him, the part of him that used to know this season as a time for gloves and candy, knew winter was a stone's throw away.

It was going to be a cold one, but the kid had suggested they head southwest, go to Arizona where it was warm. For a moment, Tallahassee allowed himself the rare smile (not the Jester's mask, his face frozen in the rigor of false bravado), but something real and fucking terrifying. He shook it off with a scowl.

Too close - he was too fucking close.

He scrubbed his palm across his jaw, callouses rough as they caught and pulled against his stubble. These thoughts weren't for him. He was meant to kill zombies and survive - not sit and fucking ponder the why's and how's of things. And yet, a part of him knew that things had changed irrevocably ever since he let that stupid kid in the truck with him. 

There was no going back to the way it used to be, not anymore - not since meeting Columbus.

Suddenly, there was a shout to his left: panicked, high-pitched and female. Tallahassee turned, sharp, quick, (no lazy shift, the stink of adrenaline curling up from his skin in immediate response) and saw two figures crest the horizon at a dead run.

It was Wichita and Little Rock; two figures, not three.

Something twisted uncomfortably in his chest and Tallahassee straightened, scanning the area behind the two girls like a prairie dog on high alert. He squinted against the glow of the setting sun, his mouth suddenly dry for reasons other than the cold wind that plucked earnestly at his clothing.

He had expected to see Columbus trailing after the pair, maybe firing haphazardly (and uselessly) over his shoulder or some shit, but where the lanky boy should have been, there was nothing. There was movement, a shift in the air, and for the briefest of moments Tallahassee thought he saw a curl of brown hair breach his line of sight. Then the wind shifted unexpectedly, dragging with it the tell-tale smell of days old rot. A low rumble reached him; first a soft moan that swayed on the air, which rose in crescendo as it drew closer.

Zombies – a shit ton of zombies too, all of them ambling, running, and generally moving in his direction, intent on one thing only: _meat_.

Tallahassee was still standing there when Wichita and Little Rock sprinted past him and flew towards the Hummer, wrenching open the doors with frantic, clumsy fingers. He remained rooted to the spot, deaf to the girls' screams as he drew his sawed-off, (he _told_ Columbus to take something better than that double barrel, the fucking idiot) and unloaded a round into the rotting horde.

He stayed until he was forced to retreat, blue eyes searching amongst the herd for a glimpse of life. Nothing. Something again twisted within him, a quick, sharp jerk, but Tallahassee just didn't have the fucking time to examine it. Instead, he did the only thing he could given the situation: he survived.

He holstered the sawed-off and ran to the Hummer, swinging himself up and inside with the same unlikely grace and adroitness that had saved his ass in Pacific Playland. He shoved Wichita roughly out of the driver's seat with more force than was necessary (didn't care) and gunned it, his foot heavy on the pedal as the Hummer tore down the road with a roar like a wounded beast.

 

 

 

=VVV-

They drove in silence for a while, the close quarters of the Hummer charged with unspoken questions and explanations. Tallahassee, for his part, seethed with accusations that loitered on the tip of his tongue, ready to burst from behind the dam of his teeth. Wichita was regarding him from the passenger seat, those big eyes of hers quietly imploring him not to ask, to let it go, to bury the questions (the memory; Columbus') in gun smoke and blood.

All at once it seemed too much and he slammed on the brakes, hard. Wichita flew forward and bloodied her nose on the dashboard with a muffled curse. Tallahassee's seatbelt caught him mid-toss; funny how another of the kid's neurotic rules had rubbed off on him when he wasn't paying attention.

At the thought of Columbus, something dark burned behind his eyes. It was a look he'd worn few times before and it meant any number of things; anything from lust to hate to the hollow ache of deep, unabiding want. In this case, it was fear. It was the type of fear that coiled hot, like anger in the belly. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel and he stared straight ahead at the desolate stretch of road in front of him.

"What happened?" Tallahassee grunted, the sound grinding through clenched teeth. It was harsh in his own ears; deep and dangerous, barely recognizable despite the burr of his drawl. Wichita flinched back from him. Behind them, Little Rock began to cry big crocodile tears, her low, soft sobs filling the car.

"We just wanted to make some hot chocolate," Wichita snapped, fear, anger, and the overwhelming need to protect her little sister aiding her courage, "the zombies heard the sound of the kettle going off."

"And?" he pressed, finally looking sideways to fix her with a hard expression.

Now it was her turn to look away. "The floor must've been rotting," she said as tonelessly as she could manage, "Columbus caught a weak patch and fell through to the basement."

"And ya left 'im down there for the zombie's to chow on," Tallahassee growled. It was a statement, not a question.

"Yeah," answered Wichita, glancing back at Little Rock, "otherwise we would've been chow too."

Finally, Tallahassee's infamous temper came to a head. He found himself shouting at Wichita, hell, he was shouting at Little Rock, who only responded by crying harder. His voice, loud as a thunderclap, filled the car. His rage, fucking full of intensity and passion, spilled out onto the streets. Wichita screamed too, her pretty face contorted and red with fear and fury, frayed nerves getting the best of both of them.

He closed his fingers around the steering wheel tighter - each minute he stayed the harder it was to keep from breaking something. Tallahassee didn't know where the anger came from, didn't understand why the thought of Columbus, crumpled and alone in the cold darkness of some dead family's basement, made his chest so tight that he could hardly breathe. He didn't know when he became so fucking attached, especially to that goddamn, good-for-nothing kid.

What he did know, was that he'd packed up Columbus' discarded duffel with extra clothing and supplies, and had strapped himself with a small arsenal by the time his headed cleared enough to realize was was standing in the middle of the road. Wichita and Little Rock were by the Hummer, looking at him with scared confusion, though in Wichita's case, her confusion was matched in spades by her frustration.

"Where are you going?" she yelled. Her voice caught on the words, betraying her fear.

Tallahassee knew and he didn't, but he replied anyway, repeating what he'd been saying the whole time. "I trusted you two with 'im."

"What the fuck does that even _mean_?" asked Wichita, holding her sister by the shoulders so Little Rock couldn't run after his retreating figure.

Tallahassee didn't answer, just turned his feet in the opposite direction and began walking. Slowly, as his footsteps echoed heavily in the cool air, his anger faded to worry, which itself soon faded to a sort of macabre, foolish determination. He didn't answer, because he wasn't sure what the words meant either.

Fuck it though. He was fixin' to find out, one way or another… and the answer lay a couple miles down the road, down in some dark basement in Ransom. The answer lay with the kid; that much Tallahasse _did_ know.

(To be continued...)


End file.
